


Defense of Marcus Antonius

by ahala



Series: Imperial University of Rome [2]
Category: Ancient History RPF, Julius Caesar - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Crime Drama, Daddy Issues, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Growing Pains, M/M, the messiest roman is on da case !
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 01:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21366169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahala/pseuds/ahala
Summary: When the Imperial University of Rome at Athens accuses Mark Antony of conspiracy and theft, Brutus struggles to determine whether he should listen to the advice of his peers, or do what he thinks is right and defend Mark in the school courts.
Relationships: Julius Caesar/Servilia of the Junii, Mark Antony/Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger
Series: Imperial University of Rome [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1389622
Kudos: 5





	Defense of Marcus Antonius

It was a blustery Roman evening, cypress trees contorting in the winter gusts, and as a storm built in the night, so discord grew in the Iunius house. The hearth was stoked in the living room, the smell of cinnamon and patchouli wafting from the flames. The firelight contrasted with the stark light of the brown metal chandelier hanging over the table, flickering against stark, dim light. An altar stood built into the wall at the head of the table. A statuette of Juno stood on one tier of the altar in the company of burnt offerings and an array of medallions and amulets on display. The table was long sturdy, the edges of it carved ornately to evoke a sort of frieze. A blood red runner was laid atop it, golden fringe hanging off the edges of the table, the velvet fabric shimmering under the gentle light of the chandelier. The second course was placed on the table and dug into with somewhat less gusto than the first, knowing there was still one more to be enjoyed before the wine cellar was raided for digestifs. 

Prima looked at her phone, which was set atop the napkin in her lap. Tertulla pushed her food around with her spoon. Brutus ate mildly, watching the conversation unfold around him. A brief recap of his recently completed semestre at school had led to the drama that encompassed the last week of the autumn term within the school's military programme. And thus, the amiable topic had been whisked away into familial contention, spiraling and snowballing to a point where the Stoic could only watch.

“The only indication throughout this entire ordeal that suggests that Antonius didn’t conspire against that good centurion is the fact that he’s too concerned with play and mischief to even consider anyone’s future, let alone _ his _,” grumbled Cicero, who had been grumbling for most of the night. Brutus took a polite sip of wine, hiding his smile in the glass. 

“He is a _f__reshman_. What judgment could you possibly pass before the year is even over?” Servilia’s voice was flippant, cold and distant, sharing her opinion in the only way she thought proper. “Besides, I think your hypersensitivity to conspiracy has made you paranoid and severe.”

“I am paranoid, my dear, for these exact circumstances.” Brutus exchanged a glance with Tertulla, whose gaze had been on Cassius, and they rolled their eyes at each other tiredly. She had a clump of gravy in the curled strand of brown hair that had escaped her bun, and her foot rested on the seat of her chair, one arm stretched across her knee comfortably. 

“There is no proof for them.”

“There is no proof against them.”

“What do you mean ‘no proof’?” Cassius spoke up from where he sat beside Cicero, across from Brutus. “His room was searched for drugs and they found the round-robin instead. _ His _ round-robin, I should say. Not to mention those documents, which he is far from having the clearance to see, let alone know about.”

“‘_Ownership_’ of a round-robin is the fundamental antithesis of the definition of a round-robin,” said Brutus boredly.

Cassius sneered. “Explain the theft of those documents, then.”

Brutus moved his food around his plate with his knife. “Forgery. A framing, perhaps.” 

“Please, Brutus,” Cicero raised his hand for pause, “don’t lower yourself to defend the vagrant.” His face was distressed at the simple notion of Brutus trying to make sense of the accusation in any light that was not explicitly guilty. 

“How does he lower himself?” Servilia’s lips were tight. Brutus and Tertulla shared another look. 

“By standing up for Antonius, ergo the vices he indulges in, his moronic breed, and the people he supports.”

“Like Caesar?” suggested Tertulla, whose innocent tone masked the maliciousness of her intention. 

“Precisely.” The word escaped Cicero before he could stop to consider his company. 

“And what does _ that _ mean?!” Fire flashed in Servilia’s eyes and she set her fork down with resolve. Cicero’s little mouth was set in a fine line. He fixed Servilia with a frustrated glare in his matte grey eyes. 

“I meant no disrespect to you; I only mean to say that the reputation of Caesar’s fanatics is just as much of a scourge on his character as his reputation is on theirs.”

It was a direct hit. Brutus’s sisters kept their heads down as if the flash across Servilia’s face was too much for them to fathom. Silanus, poor Silanus, had gone pale. Even Cicero seemed to have realised his second misstep, known that he crossed a line he had no business crossing. His jaw flexed nervously. Brutus took it in, his stomach tense. He studied his mother fleetingly, his eyes ready to look away should their eyes meet. Some strange remark flitted across Servilia’s eyes, and the flames within them doubted themselves. It was gone within a breath, but during that moment, Brutus could not translate a single emotion or thought from her. Her eyebrows furrowed, steeling her face once more. She retreated back into herself elegantly, per the regalia of her ancestry. 

“Just as any fanatic of anything slights his reputation,” her cold voice sliced through the heavy silence of the dining room. “Even more so if that fanatic is devoted to himself and his achievements.”

Their gazes met like two plates of stone grating past each other, neither daring to subduct. Still, Cicero conceded with a quick exhale through his nostrils. The corner of his thin lips was upturned slightly, and the tension loosened its hold on their throats. “Well said, Servilia. Shall we continue eating?”

The dinner’s hostility left little conversation to be had following it. Prima was quickly whisked away by her friends, and Secunda escaped to her room without a word. Brutus’s half-brother had been wise enough to avoid dinner from the beginning, claiming some ridiculous excuse or another and thus keeping his siblings from following suit so as to not arouse the suspicions or ire of their parents. Still, that didn’t stop him from being accosted by Cicero as he left and Marcus Silanus returned. They spoke in the parlor. Or, at least Cicero did, with Marcus attempting to get a word in every so often. Brutus, sitting on an armchair with a mug of cider on his belly and his eyes settled on a garland of holly and old winter relics from childhood crafts, didn’t notice the mass exodus from the Iunius house until he saw Cassius snub his cigarette out in the pearl ashtray and stand with a sigh saturated with finality. He gathered his coat and his scratched leather satchel, and Brutus stood to receive him. The general bustle of the home, conversations buzzing and plates being cleared, the television reeling off the news and weather, the water in the tea kettle beginning to boil, faded away to the howling gales outside once the two reached the entryway to the grand house.

He opened the door and Cassius stepped out on the porch. The wind nearly blew the handle from Brutus’s hand, but he held on tight and shut it behind them. He pulled his cardigan around him tight. The city lights glistened below the Palatine Hill and shimmered far into the distance. Headlights and taillights twinkled along the highways running in and out of the city. The howl of the night winds drowned out any sound from deeper within the city, leaving only a crowd of tree leaves whispering excitedly against one another and the confidence of their conversation. 

“Tell me something,” said Cassius, stepping forward to drape his jacket around Brutus’s shoulders. Brutus held onto the sides of it, holding it close around him. It smelled acrid, just like the cigarettes Cassius smoked. He found he didn’t mind the throat-burning smell of it. Somehow, it had become homely, equated with peaceful friendship and pleasant talks in the cramped comfort of Cassius’s office. 

“What?”

Cassius paused, pursing his lips for a thoughtful moment before he spoke. “You aren't really thinking of taking that case, are you?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m curious, is all, and I can’t tell when you’re joking.” 

“I might,” Brutus shrugged noncommittally, testing the waters. It was a dangerous business discussing such things with Cassius, and Brutus was wary. He had never been on the receiving end of Cassius’s wrath, but he had seen it smite others. That unto itself was a force of nature. Without any warning, amiable laughs turned to a great flash flood of venom spitting from Cassius’s forked tongue. It was difficult to gauge one’s danger until it had already befallen them. “I need to look into it more, but I’m not going to rule it out.”

“_Why _?”

“Why would I?” Brutus poked the bear.

“Are you really asking me that? The most obvious thing I can think of is the fact that you’re on opposite ends of the political spectrum, and you know that’s becoming more and dire given everything going on right now.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that he might be innocent.”

“You know he isn’t.”

Brutus bristled, and his conduciveness to Cassius’s ire waned in the face of his waxing frustration. “But I don’t. None of us do. I’m not going to be impious and turn my back on my civic duty just because he and I have different ideas regarding a political system we aren’t old enough to participate in.”

“Then consider the future, when your civic duty goes beyond just school and you _ are _ participating in the political system.”

“You think I should let him be ostracised.” It would mean the swift end of Antony’s career. Of all Antony’s sins, and there were many, pride was most forgivable, and his lust and wrath close behind it. But, whether proven or not, conspiracy and subversion were too fresh in the mind of Rome for it to be forgiven so quickly. It would be his death, in its own right. The thought made Brutus’s stomach constrict nervously.

“Yes,” Cassius nodded, his eyes alight with embers stoked in his mind, an accusational finger pointed at Brutus. “If you were smart, yes, that’s what you would do. The opposition would do the exact same thing to you if you were in their position.” Brutus’s expression flickered and Cassius dove for his throat. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re _that naive_. Do you think really Antony _cares _about you? Do you think any of them do? You’re a quick fuck and an overvalued orator, and you sell yourself for free. Are your allegiances so easily won by whoever's cock happens to please you best from one night to the next? If so, tell me now so I can be done with you.”

Brutus let the caustic remark stand, the ice in his eyes still harsh even in the face of Cassius’s savage flames. He had heard far worse and from people far more important. In truth and practicality, Cassius was powerless at every turn, armed only with the ferocity of his bite, entirely at the mercy of Brutus’s decisions and prerogative. It was a dichotomy they were both aware of, and so, while Cassius flung his insults, it was himself he insulted the most. How humiliating to struggle against a current impossible to overcome. Brutus took a breath, shrugging Cassius’s jacket from his shoulders, handing it back to him with a rigid curtness. “I will let you know. Goodnight, Cassius.”

Their eyes met as he took his coat. Cassius looked like he wanted to say more, but instead, he smiled tight and cruel and bade him, “Goodnight, Brutus.”


End file.
